Narrative: "The Innkeeper and his wife during the downpour..."

The time: Early evening, during the downpour

The location: Port Dominion on the island of St. Albion

The place: The common room of "The Inn of The Kings Arms". 

The persons: The Innkeeper and his wife, Mr. And Mrs. Dunstable.

Introduction:

The rain is pouring hard outside, and the pattering of it on the window panes of The Inn of The Kings Arms, is steady and relentless. The wind howls against the shutters, and rain lashes at the signboard outside. Inside, the fire crackles warmly. Mr. Dunstable leans on the counter, drying a pewter mug with a cloth. Mrs. Dunstable marches past with a tray, setting down bowls of steaming broth before two weary sailors huddled by the fire trying to get warm, or perhaps to try to dry out from being unfortunate enough to be caught outside in the deluge; or perhaps, even both. She returns, tugging at her apron strings, and eyes her husband.

Mrs. Dunstable (snapping): If the storm blows any harder, it’ll take the roof clean off. I’ve half a mind to bar the door and send them all home.

Mr. Dunstable (gruffly): Hah! And lose the only business we’ll see all week? No, no, let the rain drive them in. A storm’s as good as a market for us — men trapped indoors drink more, and they talk more too.

Mrs. Dunstable: Talk, aye. Half the time it’s worthless babble, the other half it’s complaints about the beer. (glances at the sailors) And mark me, those two’ll sit all night over one trencher of bread as if it were a feast.

Mr. Dunstable (shrugs): Better a cold body on a bench than no body at all. Besides, I’ve an ear for more than their coin. Loose tongues in the storm, wife — loose tongues tell us things worth silver, if you’ve the wit to listen.

Mrs. Dunstable (arching a brow): And whose wit do you mean, husband? Yours, sat there polishing the same mug these twenty minutes?

Mr. Dunstable (grinning slightly): Mine enough, but yours sharper, I’ll grant it. You’ve a hawk’s eye for who looks sideways, and who whispers too low.

(She smirks, but does not deny it. A silence follows, broken only by the storm outside. Then Mrs. Dunstable lowers her voice, leaning in.)

Mrs. Dunstable: That clerk — Marlowe. He’s bewitched, I swear it. Came in the other night staring into his cup as if it were a crystal ball. Said little, but I know the look of a man lost in fancies.

Mr. Dunstable (nodding): Aye, I noticed him too. Looks haunted. Or hunted. Could be useful. If he talks, I’ll hear it.

Mrs. Dunstable (snorts): Talks? Hah. I’ll tell you what’s in his head: Lady Eleanor. And it’s not just him. Half the men in this town would march into hell itself if she smiled at them.

Mr. Dunstable (chuckling low): Then mayhap we should be charging more for claret on the nights she appears at table. (He sets the mug down with a thunk.) A storm may wash away tracks in the street, but words spoken here stay with us. Best we remember that, wife.

Mrs. Dunstable (firmly): Best we do more than remember, husband. Best we profit.

(The fire pops loudly, and the storm surges against the inn. They both glance at the door, waiting for the next soul to come in, dripping wet and eager for warmth — and perhaps careless enough to speak too much.)